Storm Clouds Gathering
by OyHumbug
Summary: Seattle, Washington. November 30th, 1999. Buffy is a protester; Angel is a cop. Their worlds collide. AU - Human.
1. Chapter 1

_ A/N: Although the events portrayed in this story did occur, I am by no means a historian. The information I used was garnered from various online sources. Eventually, when the issues are presented, remember that they are being told from a protester's perspective. I am not attempting to use this story as a means of advocating my own personal political views. On a more practical level, there are eight parts to this ficlet in total. I know I had a longer piece promised first, but this wouldn't get out of my head. Still, though, the longer piece – The Price We Pay for Love – is over half finished and eventually will be posted. Promise. Finally, you all know what I'm going to say next: enjoy!_

_~Charlynn~_

**Storm Clouds Gathering**

**Part One**

Buffy Anne Summers was a creature of habit. She knew it, her family knew it, and so did her friends. Whether such a trait was good or not, she had yet to determine, but she was resigned to it. Used to it. Comfortable with it.

So, that was why it didn't bother her that she ate the same breakfast every morning – a partially ripe banana for the potassium (if the banana had a single brown spot, it was shoved to the back of the fridge and eventually turned into banana bread no matter how crampy her legs felt), dry Honey Nut Cheeriors, and enough orange juice to float a small cruise ship. While she ate, she read the paper, a habit she formed from years of dining with her dad. It didn't matter how tired she was or how busy her day looked to be, she always made time for food and features before leaving her apartment.

So, that was also why, when she took a shower every night, her pattern of repetitious behavior never deviated. First, she wet her hair. Then she would shampoo and rinse thoroughly. With long, thick locks, a girl could never be too sure when it came to her fight against pesky dandruff. Following a tedious cleansing, she'd soak just the ends of her hair, that which did not touch her scalp, with thick, creamy conditioner, leaving it to sit while she shaved. Once her various, shave-able body parts were baby soft and kissable smooth, she'd rinse our her conditioner, lather up her loofa, and scrub her body clean. Flood conditions or drought, Buffy's showers always took, at least, a half an hour.

And that was also why she _always _went home for the holidays. Fall break, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Spring Break, Easter, and, of course, Summer break, it didn't matter. Fashionable or not, she wasn't the type of girl to run off with her friends and leave her family dangling in the wind. Her dedication to her family didn't stem from a deep-seeded obligation or a fear of her parents passing soon. Rather, Giles and Joyce Summers were both understanding and young. If the idea alone wouldn't send her into apoplectic shock, she'd even say that they were cool, but such a compliment could pass from no daughter's lips. If she had wanted to skip the Summers' family traditions in favor of studying or living it up in the Caribbean or Mexico, they would have been fine with such a decision – saddened that they wouldn't see her but fine. However, that wasn't her style. Breaks from school meant time at home, no matter how unpopular that idea was with her other fellow students.

Except, for the first time in her life, Buffy wasn't spending a holiday with mom, pop, and kid sister, too. At the beseeching, begging, pleading, near threatening of bodily harm by her best friend Willow, she had agreed to forfeit a trip home for Thanksgiving in favor of remaining on campus and then taking the bus up to Seattle for a short, non-touristy trip. Instead of turkey, tryptophan, and touchdowns, she was going protesting, no doubt, knowing Seattle's less than pleasant in her Southern California beach bum girl mind, in the rain.

Stepping off the Greyhound bus which had carried her from Corvallis, Oregon to the Emerald City, Buffy looked to the gray, overcast sky, frowning silently. Whereas she should have been soaking up the late November rays back in the Dale of Sunny, she was, instead, battening down the hatches for what looked like one hell of a storm. The clouds above were rumbling and grumbling, rolling into each other with ferocious intent, and the wind whistled petulantly between the various buildings surrounding her, seemingly angry to be trapped there as well. After her long trip on a none-to-comfortable bus, all she wanted to do was eat something warm, curl up, and go to sleep. In her opinion, November 30th couldn't come and go fast enough.

But Buffy knew the protest was important to her best friend, so, before Willow could see her unhappy and less than enthused countenance, Buffy rolled her shoulders back, smiled brightly, and took off in search of her backpack. It was easy to find. After all, most travelers used suitcases, but she was roughing it that night. No hotel. No running water. So, there was no need for the usual accouterments one traditionally took with them when on a trip.

However, that didn't mean that her pack wasn't heavy. Hoisting it onto her back and nearly stumbling from the weight, Buffy quickly righted herself once more before setting out of the terminal. By the time she made it to the waiting area, she was already tired, and she didn't even want to think about how sore her back would be after lugging around with her such a big bag throughout a city the size of Seattle. But she shouldn't have been worried. Unlike her, Willow was more of a free spirit. She didn't have a plan for everything. Rather, she took life as it came to her, usually moving around at warp speed in order to do everything she wanted to.

Whereas Buffy was still unsure what her life would someday be, choosing to simply take liberal studies at OSU where she and her best friend attended college together, Willow Rosenberg was determined to make a difference in the world. She was going to be a lawyer, and a damn good one, too, and she was going to fight for the downtrodden, the abused, those who were taken advantage of and they didn't even know it. She was an activist who fought the good fight on the behalf of every single cause Buffy could think of. Human, animal, plant, if it was considered living, Willow wanted to serve and protect it. It was honorable, but, when Buffy was completely honest with herself, it was exhausting as well.

Even though she admired her best friend, she also didn't understand Willow's fervent opinions. They were only twenty-one, and, in Buffy's mind, they didn't know enough about the world to be capable of fixing it. Democrat or Republican? Liberal of Conservative? City or Country? Introvert or Extrovert? House or Apartment? White wine or Red? While she was still trying to figure out the small and, sometimes, the not so small stuff, Willow didn't stop long enough to even think about what she wanted from her own life; she was too focused upon others.

However, after years of watching Willow strive to make the world a better place for everyone and everything, she had finally accepted an invitation to join her friend. Even though she didn't think one protest would turn her into a bleeding heart, she did want to see what all the fuss was about, and she really did agree with some of Willow's ideals and views. In a few months, they'd both be graduating from college. Willow would be going off to law school, and Buffy would be going home to Southern California to get a job and enter graduate school part time. In a few months, they'd be best friends who lived hundreds of miles away from each other. If she ever wanted to truly know Willow, she had to take the chance while she could. With the distance that would soon be separating them, she didn't want confusion and misunderstanding to reside between them as well. While she harbored no expectations of suddenly finding herself and modeling her life after Willow's, she wanted to see what all her best friend's passion was about just once before she went back to her regularly scheduled Buffy programming.

Her family had been great about her decision. Dawn, her younger sister, was psyched that she'd have the house, their parents' attention, and their mother's credit card all to herself that Thanksgiving. Although Buffy had harbored no illusions when it came to her relationship with her sister, even she had been surprised by Dawn's sheer elation at Buffy's pass to the always outstanding Thanksgiving invite. On the other hand, both her mom and her dad had been saddened by the news but supportive, her mom giving her packing tips and her dad talking her through the various issues surrounding the planned World Trade Organization Protests.

So, there she was in a bus station on November 29th, 1999 – twenty-one, a stranger in an unknown, unfamiliar city, and completely alone. Sitting down in an uncomfortable, plastic chair, Buffy found herself wondering what her family was doing at that moment. Were they still recovering from their Thanksgiving gorging, or were they working their way through the left overs? Were they missing her, thinking about her like she was missing and thinking about them or distracted by what was no doubt their better weather and their Christmas season preparations? One thing she didn't have to question was their sense of belonging. Whereas she felt like a fish out of water, they would be entirely at home.

It wasn't so much that Buffy didn't like going to new and different places, because she did. For her, traveling was fun but only if she was in control of the situation – if she had a concrete plan, transportation and lodging prearranged, enough money or a credit card with a moderate limit in her pocket to get her through any unforeseen emergency. But Willow had been adamant that she should only bring enough money to survive, money for cheap food and bottles of water, and there'd be no taxis or hotels for her that night. Instead, she'd be walking through Seattle and sleeping in a foldaway tent that was stuffed into her oversized and overflowing back pack.

To make matters worse, she didn't even feel comfortable in her own skin. Buffy was used to cute tops and skirts, designer jeans and crisp, white t-shirts that showed off her California glow. She wore sandals and let her long hair hang loose. Her nails were always painted, and she didn't leave the house without, at least, a light sprinkling of makeup on her face. But Washington weather called for more clothes, heavier clothes, bulkier clothes, so the beach bum saw herself parading around in old, worn jeans, rain boots, a thick sweater, and a slicker... with a hood. Her hair was piled high up on her head, her nails were unpolished, and makeup was a foreign concept. She felt... unfamiliar, like a stranger, and, for a girl who liked the routine, who enjoyed the comforts of the known, such a sensation was off-putting.

Time ticked by, the afternoon seemed to ooze by her as she waited for her best friend to arrive. Willow had promised to meet her at the bus station, but, so far, Buffy had spotted no recognizable redhead walking in her direction. Every time she thought she spotted her friend, it turned out to be yet another stranger, and, with each misidentification, her spirits plummeted even lower. Her forced, prepared smile wilted, the frown she had first stepped onto Seattle soil with became deeper, more pronounced, and her shoulder slumped. Eventually giving up, she hefted her bag onto her back once more and set out on her own.

At least, she knew where she was supposed to go. Everyone who followed the news was aware that the World Trade Organization's meetings and, subsequently, the protests pertaining to them were taking place at Seattle's Convention and Trade Center. It was located downtown, just as the Greyhound station was, but Buffy didn't know how far away the two locations were from each other or in what direction she would have to travel in to meet up with her best friend and fellow marchers.

By the time she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she was berating herself for not bringing a map with her or, at least, doing a little bit of research, but Willow had promised, and she had trusted her friend. After all, why shouldn't she have? It had been Willow's idea for her to go to Seattle, Willow's participation that had really made her sit up and take notice of the planned protest, Willow's invitation that had led her to skip Thanksgiving with her family and do something so completely out of her comfort zone. And, now, breaking her promise, Willow wasn't there.

Looking left and right, Buffy contemplated which way to go on Eighth Avenue. Or should she, instead, cross the road and then move up Stewart? "Eeny meeny miny mo, if Willow's not dead, I'm going to break her big toe." She settled for left, turned, and entered the thick, bustling foot traffic of rush hour.

Hundreds of people surrounded her, all of them going to or from someplace with a destination in mind and knowledge of how to get there. They were traveling solo, or in pairs, and sometimes she would even come across a large, boisterous group. Some people were shopping, some were on their way to dinner, and others were, no doubt, just trying to get home. While their enthusiasm gave her weary shoulders energy, they also made her feel even more lost in the alien city. Unlike her, everyone else seemed to have a plan. It was with that thought that she sighed, contemplated turning around and just going back to the bus station to await her return trip back to Oregon the next evening.

And that's when the storm clouds opened up, and it started to rain.

Without thought, she ran towards the first shop, stepping inside the small cafe, the sound of water bullets following her only to slap futilely against the glass of the coffee house's windows. Inside, the air was warm, and inviting, and it made her realize just how cold and hungry she really was. Outside, the wind and gloom of an approaching gale had been distracting, muting all other thoughts and realities. Now, though, her discomfort was given an opportunity to take center stage, and, boy, did it ever take advantage of such an offer.

Approaching the cafe's counter, Buffy dug through her purse until she found the picture she sought. It was a snapshot of she and Willow taken just a few weeks prior after her best friend chopped off her long hair into a chic and stylish bob. Presenting the barista with the photo, she asked, "you haven't, by chance, seen this girl, have you? She's here for the protest, and I know she's been staying nearby. I just thought that maybe...."

The older woman laughed. "Honey, do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into? Thousands of people are here for the protests. You're looking for a needle in a haystack, and, unfortunately for you, I'm not a pitchfork." When Buffy opened her mouth to thank the woman anyway, she was stopped, interrupted. "Now, why don't you go into the back, change out of those wet clothes, and, while you're gone, I'll fix you a nice cup of hot cocoa... on the house. We usually don't allow customers back there, but, seeing as how you're not buying...." Winking, the barista added, "plus, while you're back there, I'll see what I can do about finding someone to help you locate your friend."

Before she could protest or even ask what was meant by such a comment, the friendly stranger shooed her off, literally making the noise and gesturing for Buffy to leave. Perhaps the suggestion was simply too tempting to pass up, or maybe she was too used to obeying commands set forth by her elders, but, whatever the reason, Buffy did as she was told, and, by the time she returned to the front of the store - dry, refreshed, and spirits slightly uplifted, she was glad that she had. Crossing to the cafe's counter, she picked up her steaming mug of hot chocolate, the first genuine smile of the day tickling the corners of her mouth.

"Aren't you just the cutest thing in galoshes," the woman complimented. Glancing at the barista's uniform, Buffy saw that her name was Karen. "Now, see that handsome gentleman behind you?" Turning dutifully, she glanced at the man mentioned, but she already knew whom the older woman was talking about. A drowned rat and miserable, she had still noticed him earlier when she had first stepped into the shop. "Go over there and talk to him. If anyone should be able to help you find your friend in that ever expanding throng of protesters, it'll be Officer Kelly." Lowering her voice, she confided, "plus, just between us girls, he's nice to look at, too. While it's raining outside, Liam Kelly will bring a spot of sunshine to any woman's day."

"Oh, well, I'm just in town for a day, so..."

"I never said you had to marry the man, honey," Karen teased her. "I just said you should have dinner with him."

"Dinner," Buffy questioned. Cocoa? Okay. A little conversation? She could handle that. Asking him – a cop – to help her find Willow? Sure... if he didn't mind and didn't already have plans. But dinner? No one said anything about dinner. Dinner meant food, and food meant a date... at least that was always what her mother had told her growing up.

"He insisted," Karen informed her. "And I already sent the order to the kitchen, so there's no use in arguing. If you don't eat it, it'll just go to waste, and Officer Kelly will be out of his money. You wouldn't want to do that now, wouldn't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, the bossy yet sweet woman disappeared, and Buffy had no choice but to go over to the table where the delectable cop sat eating his own meal and reading the paper. As she sat down, he put his newspaper away, folding it and sliding it to the side. Their gazes met, he lifted his mug to take a sip of his coffee, and her previous, hint of a grin turned into a dazzling, full fledged smile.

"Do you make a habit of befriending every woman lost in Seattle?"

"No," he answered softly. His voice was just loud enough so that only the two of them could hear what he said. Despite the fact that she didn't know him, Buffy liked the intimacy she felt in that moment. "And who said I wanted to be your friend?"

Before she could respond, a smirking Karen delivered her plate of food.

!!!

He was exhausted, uncomfortable in his borrowed pair of clean scrubs, and unshaven, but none of that mattered. Clutching the hand of the woman lying prone on the bed before him, Angel thought back over the past twenty-four hours, wondering, if anything, what he could have done differently to make sure that none of their current mess would have happened. He wasn't foolish enough to think he could have stopped the protest or kept everyone safe, but could his actions or maybe even his lack of actions somehow have protected just one person from the horrors of that day?

If the woman before him didn't make it, he'd forever regret helping Buffy Anne Summers find her friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

He could feel her gaze upon him, discreetly studying his profile out of the corner of her eyes. It was like a caress against his skin, and it made him feel more alive than he'd been in months. While he knew very little about her – just what he had learned while they made small talk during their dinner, he knew that he liked her, enjoyed her company. More importantly, unlike all the dozens of other women he came in contact with every day, he actually wanted to know more about her. While he certainly wasn't a monk, he also didn't date. In fact, he was hard pressed to recall the last time he had shared anything with a woman besides a bed... for a few hours.

"You're quiet," Buffy finally offered, breaking the companionable silence stretching between them. Despite the fact that he was now carrying her heavy pack for her, she was keeping their pace slow, almost as if she really didn't want to locate her friend. "Is there something wrong? Did I..."

"No," he reassured her. "Just thinking."

"About?"

Even though he knew she couldn't see his reaction, he smiled. "About you." And about his seemingly immediate attraction to her. When she had stumbled in through the cafe's doors, despite being soaked and in a bad mood, there had been no denying the fact that she was a beautiful woman. Blonde with ever-changing hazel eyes and a body, though small, that packed a powerfully sensual punch, she was the complete antithesis of his own dark looks, something he liked in a woman. "And about how I let you pay."

When she next spoke, he could hear the amused curiosity in her voice. "You know, I was wondering about that. I mean, first you ordered my dinner for me, without even asking whether or not I was hungry. You have to admit that was a little..."

"High handed," he offered.

"No, I was going to say forward. Determined." He watched as she shrugged her shoulders. "I guess it could have been taken as high handed, but you didn't give off those cave man vibes. It just felt like you saw an opportunity and went for it. In fact, it kind of felt like a first date – awkward yet exciting, both of us tiptoeing around each other and what we wanted to say because we wanted to make a good impression, but then you let me pay, and, even though I have nothing against the idea of a girl picking up the tab sometimes, you didn't remind me of a guy who would willingly do that. So, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't actually like a first date."

He couldn't see her face. The night was too dark and the lights illuminating the closed shop windows too dim, but that didn't mean that he couldn't sense her embarrassment. Without actual proof, he knew that she was blushing. Wanting to put her at ease and to squash any doubt on her part, he was quick to disagree, "or maybe I thought letting you pay was the only way I'd be able to convince you to see me again before you leave Seattle."

"Really?" Buffy's tone audibly brightened. "How so?"

"Well, as you've already figured out, I can be somewhat old fashioned when it comes to actual dating." While he was all for full-disclosure, he wasn't about to share all his bad habits on the first night and scare her off before he had the chance to win her over and show her that all bad habits can be broken if given the proper motivation. "And, as I've determined that you're a compassionate woman, I'm hoping that you'll take pity on my chivalrous heart and allow me to return the favor of paying for a meal. Consider it our second date."

"But I leave Seattle tomorrow night after the protest."

"That's perfect," he argued. "You'll march, and yell, and, in general, completely exhaust yourself, and, before you leave, you'll need a big, hearty meal in order to re-energize. That's where I'll come in. I'll meet you back at the cafe tomorrow night, and, since I'll be paying, I'll let you order for the both of us. We'll swap roles."

"Officer Kelly, Liam...," she started to protest, but he cut her off.

"It's Angel."

Doubt was present in her tone. "It is?"

"Yeah, I know. It's a weird and, frankly, feminine name for a guy..."

This time, it was her turn to interrupt him. "It's... fitting. My apologies to your parents, but you're just not a Liam. So, let me guess. You have all your friends call you Angel?"

"Buffy, I'm a cop. There's no way in hell I'd ever tell my friends about my nickname. I'd be laughed out of my badge."

She giggled softly, the sound seemingly dampened by the heavy, suffocating air of the chilly, late November night. Despite the fact that it had already rained once, a brief, torrential shower, the Seattle atmosphere was still choked with humidity, the gathering clouds above churning and thrashing in a competition to see which would boil over their wrath first. A storm was imminent. But, in that moment, walking along the busy, cramped sidewalks with the woman beside him, he simply didn't care. Her levity, her warmth, and her unexpected yet entirely welcome companionship chased away the chill and made him feel foolishly invincible.

A few moments later, when her laughter ceased, she asked, "so, where does the name Angel come from?"

"Well, my middle name's Angelus, but it was more of a joke than anything else. Let's just say that, in my youth, I was less than perfectly angelic, and the name mocked that fact."

"You were a brat?"

"More like a hellion," he revealed with his own chuckle of fond remembrance. "I was a decent student... when I actually showed up at school. Who knows what I could have become if I actually applied myself. I smoked, drank, blatantly ignored and broke every single one of my parents' rules. I was less than reserved when it came to my past... relationships."

"You slept around."

Unable to allow the opportunity to slip through his fingers, Angel stopped them, turned to face Buffy, and smirked. "There wasn't much sleeping involved." Again, he wasn't going for full disclosure – that, if the chance presented itself, would come later, but a man had to boast when he could. After several long, meaning filled beats, they started walking once again. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not a slut."

Laughing, he denied, "that's not what I meant. What I wanted to know is what you were like in the past."

"High school?"

"Sure," he agreed, shrugging his shoulders. "Or college. Whenever. Just tell me something about yourself, other than the fact that you are against the practices of the WTO."

"Oh, that's more my friend Willow. She's the one who wants to save the world, one endangered bug at a time. I'm just here to see what the big fuss is about and to lend moral support."

"So, you don't believe in the protest?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Buffy answered. "Once I agreed to meet her here, I asked my dad to help me figure out why people like Willow are so angry, and, from what I learned, it seems like they have some legitimate beefs. I'm just not all gung-ho about it like she is. If I can help, great, but, if I can't, my life will still having meaning." Self-deprecatingly, she asked, "am I making any sense here at all?"

"Perfect sense. I get what you're saying. But that also tells me more about your friend Willow than it does you."

"Probably because she's easier to describe. Willow's the type of person who knows exactly who she is, and she's been that way since we were kids, whereas I still don't know who I am or what I want to do with my life." Before he could interject, she continued. "I've always been... not flighty but maybe distracted easily. I'll find something that I'm interested in, but then, six months later, I discover a new hobby, and then another, and then another. There's just too many interesting things in the world to tie myself down to one. I think that's why I haven't been able to actually pick a major or a future career. I'll be twenty-two in less than two months, I'm going to be graduating at the end of my next semester, and, so far, my plans for after college consist of going back home, getting some kind of job, and looking into part time grad school, in what area of study, I have no idea."

"Maybe that's better," Angel offered. He could tell that she was slightly distressed by her lack of a formal, set in stone plan. Not only did he truly believe what he said, but he also wanted to reassure her. However, they were also starting to come upon pockets of students camped out on the sidewalks along the northern route to the Convention Center. Nodding his head in their general direction, he said, "keep an eye out for your friend. She should be around here somewhere since you guys are students." Returning to their previous conversation, he explained his remark. "As for being undecided about your future, yeah, you're going to be twenty-two, but you're still young, and isn't it better to approach life with your eyes wide open and cautious than to jump in with both feet and make a mistake?"

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

Beautiful, funny, and perceptive. "Let's just say that I decided to become a cop for all the wrong reasons." When she remained silent, apparently waiting for him to continue, he did so. "I'm not originally from Seattle. My family's from New York, and my dad's this bigwig on Wall Street. Wanted me to be just like him, but I hated even the idea of what he does. Growing up, he always seemed miserable to me – never happy, never smiling, always either working or thinking about working. He bullied me, and he ignored my little sister. He was a terrible husband, not because he didn't care but because he cared more about his job than he did his wife. So, when it came time for me to pick a college, a career, I did the very thing that I knew he would hate the most: I became a cop."

"Do you hate it?"

"Some aspects," he admitted. "We're supposed to serve and protect, but it seems like all we do is clean up and arrest criminals. By the time we get there, the damage is already done most of the time. But I like the family mentality of the prescient, and the way little kids look up and admire us. That's perhaps the greatest feeling in the world."

Buffy surprised him when she moved closer, took his hand in her own, and gave it a light, encouraging squeeze. As they continued to walk, she didn't let go. "And if you could do everything different, would you? Would you have gone to school for something else? Would you give up being a cop?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, you're certainly not twenty-two, but..."

Before she could say any more, he laughed teasingly and exclaimed, "well, thanks a lot. You could tell that, huh? I'm not ancient either, though."

"Now would be a good time to prove that, Angel."

He added cheeky to her list of attractive qualities and traits. "I'm 32."

"32's still pretty young, plenty of time to think about what you want from life and, this time, make an informed, well thought out decision. Take your own advice. Just because you rushed into becoming a cop, doesn't mean you have to stay one for the rest of your career. People change jobs all the time."

"Yeah, but usually a change in career also comes with a hot, little sports car and new wardrobe meant to make a guy going through a mid-life crises feel young again."

"Fine, be a negative Nelly."

"I'll think about it," he countered, surrendered.

A stretch of silence lengthened between them as they stopped talking in favor of looking closer at the crowd they were picking their way through. Eventually, though, they passed the Convention Center and started moving through the streets to the south of the large site for the World Trade Organization meetings. Neither of them had seen a young woman with bright, distinct red hair. "I showed you Willow's picture, right?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't see her either?"

"No, and we're definitely not among the student contingent any more," Angel responded. Instead, they were walking through a group of protesters who looked older, whether because of their age or simply harsher lifestyle choices, he wasn't sure. They were all dressed entirely in black, spoke in hushed, secretive whispers, and regarded them warily. Unlike with the students, there was no gaiety present in their ranks, no tents, no sense of peaceful, youthful exuberance. Although his steps never faltered, the group surrounding them made Angel pause in worry, in concern. He didn't particularly like the vibe he was getting from the darker section of protesters.

And then they saw Willow, smack dab in the center of a large, angry sea of inky, violent rage belonging to the men and women circled around her.

Ignoring his restraining arm, Buffy broke away from his grasp and moved to confront her friend. He followed immediately behind her steps. "What the hell are you doing all the way down here, Willow?"

Whirling around, the woman in question flicked her gaze from Buffy to him, back again, and then she froze her gaze upon his badge. Though he wasn't in uniform, his open coat revealed the insignia of his profession danging from his neck. "You brought a cop with you."

"What does it matter what he does for a living," Buffy questioned angrily. "_He _was there to help me when you weren't. _He_ was the one who helped me find you, because you, obviously, couldn't be bothered to meet me at the bus station like you promised."

Again, the other woman ignored the implied questions sent in her direction. "He has no business here unless he's joining us in the protest."

Speaking up for the first time, Angel said, "I just wanted to make sure that Buffy was safe and that she found you. As for the march, as you've noticed, I'm a Seattle police officer. No matter what my own personal opinion might be, professionally, I have to remain neutral, impartial, so, no, I will not be joining you in the rally."

"The fact that you'll tow the party line tells me all I need to know about you and your opinions, officer," Willow remarked caustically. "Switzerland isn't noble; it's cowardly... just like you."

Barking orders, he snapped, "let's go. Grab your things, Miss Rosenberg, because I'm escorting you and Buffy back to the northern side of the Convention Center. Personally, right now, I don't care where you stay, but Buffy does, and I don't want her to be down here with you."

He hadn't meant to be so brusque, so high handed again, but the men and women surrounding Willow made him anxious, and, if nothing else, he had meant what he said when he told Buffy's best friend that he intended to keep her safe. At least Buffy didn't seem to mind, because, as soon as the three of them started walking north once more, she moved so that she was standing beside him, retaking his hand.

The three of them moved on in silence, Willow, no doubt, stewing. He had a feeling that Buffy was worried about her friend, still angry that the promise made to meet her at the bus station had been so easily broken, and lost somewhere in her own contemplations as to why her friend reacted the way she had to a cop's presence. As for his thoughts, well, they centered around the woman at his side. Despite what he knew to be planned for the protest, Angel suddenly had a very uncomfortable feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

Slipping Buffy's pack off his back once they reached an unoccupied spot of the large student group, he turned towards her. "I want you to promise me that you'll be careful tomorrow."

"Angel, it's just a..."

"Promise me."

Removing any traces of levity from her voice, Buffy agreed. "I promise."

"Stay with people you know or, at least, trust, never go off on your own, and make sure that you carry several bottles of water with you at all times... just in case." Thankfully, she didn't question his directives, because, to answer her, he would have had to reveal his fears, and he didn't want to put such dangerous ideas and thoughts out there. Lightening the moment, he grinned down at her. "And remember, tomorrow night before you leave – you, me, and the cafe. You'll order the food, I'll pay, and we'll figure out a way to meet up for a third date."

"Aren't we being awfully presumptuous, Liam Angelus Kelly."

"Confident."

"Cocky."

Winking, he taunted, "you better believe it." Surprising the both of them, he leaned down to drop a quick yet tender kiss upon her left cheek. With one last squeeze of her hand in his, he let go of her fingers. "I've got to get to work. Be careful, and I'll see you soon."

Without a second glance behind him, he turned to leave, walking through the throngs of people camped out on the sidewalk, for he knew that, if he looked back, he might not leave at all. Although the clouds were still threatening from above, he wasn't sure if the rain was actually the storm he had been sensing earlier. Something else, something more sinister seemed afoot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

Mumbling tiredly in her sleep, Buffy complained, "Willow, would you cut it out?"

She wasn't necessarily a light sleeper... not like her mom who woke up if their next door neighbor's inside cat started to purr. Nor was she a heavy sleeper either like her sister. Without exaggerating, Buffy knew Dawn was capable of sleeping through just about anything – the town's sirens going off when there was a wildfire, the drunk who lived on their street serenading their bedroom windows with show tunes at the top of her voice, stray dogs rummaging through and knocking over their metal trash cans at three in the morning. It didn't matter how incongruous the noise was, her sister would dream right on through it.

Unfortunately, Buffy wasn't as lucky. If she was, then Willow's snoring, reminiscent of a blaring alarm, wouldn't have the power to rouse her from a deep, very much needed sleep. She was exhausted. Between traveling to Seattle, worrying about finding her friend, and then having to set up their tent – something she had never done before without the assistance of her dad – before she could call it a night, the last thing in the world that she wanted was to be rudely interrupted during her REM cycle's sweet spot, not to mention the fact that she had an early wake up call the next morning in order to be ready for the march.

Perhaps if she had been less tired, then she would have remembered that her best friend didn't snore, that, when Willow Rosenberg finally called it a night and crashed, she, too, like Dawn, slept like the dead. Forget snoring; she barely moved in her sleep. But Buffy wasn't in the right frame of mind to recall those details about her tent-mate. In fact, she was still half asleep, so, when the incessant, frustrating noise continued to persist even after she asked Willow to stop snoring, she complained once more.

"Come on, Will! Some of us are trying to sleep here."

Rolling over to curl up on her side, her back facing her best friend's sleeping bag, Buffy attempted to burrow herself further into the warm, buffering folds of her blankets, hoping they would help to dampen the noise blaring from her friend's nose. No such luck. No matter how she shifted, how she tried to cover her head, or how she attempted to block out the annoying sounds, she could still hear them. Even streamy thoughts of the hunky Officer Kelly did nothing to alleviate her discomfort.

Finally fed up, she tossed her covers aside, rolled back over, and wound up her leg in order to kick Willow into consciousness so that she would stop her bleating. However, when she fired her assault, her foot never came in contact with her friend's form. Rather, it simply struck tangled blankets, its impact immediately dulled upon soft cotton and down. Confused and slightly anxious, Buffy felt her last remnants of sleep evaporate as she sat up, narrowing her eyes as they adjusted to the darkness of the tent.

Despite her difficulty in seeing, though, it was apparent that Willow was no longer inside the protective, outdoor shelter with her. Moving so that she was kneeling, Buffy rifled through their things, hoping to find a short note from her friend to tell her where she had gone, but there was nothing. Settling back down, she started to think.

With the last swirls of sleep induced fog banished from her tired mind, she realized that what she had interpreted as snoring that sounded like an alarm was actually a car alarm. Why no one had moved to shut it off yet, she wasn't sure, but she had no doubt that she wasn't the only one rudely woken up by the loud, intrusive sound. Secondly, she laughed over her short spurt of panic over her best friend's unknown whereabouts. It wasn't like they had a conveniently placed bathroom inside of their tent. She was sure that Willow had just slipped out for a moment, intent upon finding a business that was still open that offered public restrooms.

Whether she was simply too awake to fall back asleep immediately or still slightly worried for her friend, whatever the reason, Buffy didn't immediately lay back down. Instead, she remained seated, distractedly chewing on a hangnail that marred the surface of her left thumb. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes, eventually a half an hour passed by, and she realized that, once more, she had been wrong. Her common sense assumption that Willow was simply using the bathroom had lost all its credence. Or maybe that had just been an empty, hopeful thought, one she offered herself in a blind attempt to dismiss her friend's strange behavior from earlier.

Worried and needing answers, Buffy quickly redressed in the clothes she had been wearing the day before, tossing her shirt on right over her pajama top and wiggling into her jeans after removing her cartoon, flannel pants. Forgetting the way Willow had forgotten to meet her at the bus station, ignoring the way she had rudely treated Angel, and excusing the fact that she left their tent without informing Buffy of her plans, she was still mad at her friend for making her unnecessarily get dressed in a tent during the middle of the night, and she was going to tell her so before she lost her nerve, before sleep and a new morning could dull her ire.

Crawling out of the tent, Buffy, once more attempting more optimism than she actually felt, told herself that Willow was simply socializing with the other student protesters. Too excited over the prospect of the march later that day, her friend hadn't been able to sleep and, instead of waking Buffy, went out in search of other wired, enthusiastic participants. As she stood, though, and scanned her immediate surroundings, seeing several small groups of students who were quietly talking amongst themselves, she quickly noticed that Willow was not of their ranks.

However, she was determined. So, approaching the nearest group, an assortment of men and women all wearing Berkeley sweatshirts, Buffy said, "hi. Sorry to bother you, but have any of you seen my friend Willow... Willow Rosenberg?" At their empty, unrecognizing expressions, she translated, "she's about five foot, six inches, has red hair. She would have come out of the same tent that I just did."

"Oh, yeah, _her_," one of the Berkeley students responded. There was no disguising the man's lack of affinity for her best friend, and Buffy nearly flinched at the obvious scorn she heard peppering his voice. "I saw her leave, but, frankly, the last thing I want is to know where she went, and, if you knew what was good for you, you'd avoid finding out as well."

Okay, sure. So Willow could be passionate, sometimes even alienatingly so, but Buffy knew the stranger's reaction to her friend was more than that. Whatever his grudge against Willow was about, it was serious. Despite the fact that his tone made a shiver of warning run up and down her spine, she still needed to find her best friend. No matter what. Once she did, though, she knew that they seriously needed to talk. Although she needed more information from the group, she struggled to form her questions. "I don't... but... she's..." Frustrated, she sighed, running a careless, distracted hand through her knotted, bedraggled hair. "Look, she's my best friend. In fact, the only reason I'm here is to support her, to see for myself what exactly it is that she's so passionate about. I just need to make sure that she's okay."

"She's not." This time, it was a woman who spoke up, and her voice was slightly more sympathetic than her male counterpart's. "We've been here for days, helping to organize the march, so we've seen your friend around quite a bit. The first day she was here, she was right in the thick of everything, but then, that night, we all sat here and watched her wander off. She was gone for hours. Other people noticed as well, and, after we all compared notes, we realized that she went off somewhere beyond the student blocks. The next morning, she was different, less interested, aloof, almost dismissive towards what it is we're all here to do. The longer we've been here, the less we've seen her. In fact, today when she came back with you and your other friend... the cop, that was the first time we'd seen her all day." Buffy noticed that, unlike Willow, this woman didn't puff with anger when she referred to Angel as a cop. The comparison to Willow's reaction further made her stomach drop. "While I understand that she's your friend, don't let her drag you into something you can't control, that you can't fix, that could get you hurt. Nothing - no one - is worth that."

She was grateful for the woman's advice and smart enough to realize how sound it was, but, despite what her brain was telling her, despite her common sense, she still had to see for herself just what exactly it was that Willow had gotten herself into. They had been best friends for years, sometimes even closer than Buffy was with her actual sister, and she had looked up to Willow, admired her strength of convictions and her generous humanity. So, a few bad experiences, a handful of doubts, and the warnings of a bunch of strangers were not enough to turn her away from someone she loved.

"Thanks," she replied honestly. "I appreciate your help, but I have to see it for myself, you know?"

"We understand," the woman said. And it really sounded as though she did. "But be careful, okay?"

Smiling in reassurance, Buffy walked off, instinctively moving along the same path she had walked just hours before with Willow and Angel. With no other ideas, she planned to return to where she had spotted her friend before, and, if Willow wasn't there, then she would figure something else out. Despite her apparent calm, though, her emotions were experiencing a severe case of turbulence, and it hadn't gotten passed her that, in less than a single day, two new acquaintances, albeit one more lasting than the other, had warned her to be careful in connection to her best friend. To Buffy, that seemed to be highly probable of being more than just a coincidence.

Sporadically, along her route, she would stop to question other groups of students. In the back of her mind, she was amazed by all the different accents she heard, by all the different schools she saw represented at the protest - those ranging from the most elite and highly publicized to the obscure unknowns, schools located all over the wide, immense country. However, at the forefront of her thoughts were the various reactions she received to questions about Willow. Some students, like those from Berkeley, were wary of her best friend, while others were downright hostile, and some others were completely unaware of who Willow was. No one, however, expressed a positive reaction.

There was a decided shift in atmosphere when she finally crossed out of the student occupied city blocks. Why she had missed it before, Buffy wasn't sure. Perhaps because she was so focused upon finding Willow and unconcerned about her surroundings because Angel had been right there beside her, literally, at times, holding her hand. Now that she was alone, though, and with all the various warnings and worries littering her mind, she couldn't help but feel the difference.

Whereas the students' section was alive with conversation, soft music, and even the occasional boisterous card game, once she passed into the streets beyond those blocks, all noise fell away. There was no laughter, no warmth of spirit, no surge of hope from the sidewalks' occupants. Even the air itself felt heavier, more oppressive, and, if she wasn't mistaken, the streets were darker. A decided air of menace hung densely, and the fact that it only took her just a handful of steps into the non-student section of the city to spot Willow surrounded by the same black clad, dangerous looking group as before made the lump in Buffy's throat thicken and expand.

Something instinctive within her made Buffy approach her best friend quietly. She didn't call out a greeting, she didn't immediately pounce with her questions and recriminations, and she did everything within her power to conceal her presence as much as one possibly could while walking down a sidewalk towards a large group. As she moved, she overheard pieces of conversation that made little sense to her, further cementing her concern.

"... find as many gas masks as possible."

"... loose bricks, rocks, whatever you can..."

"... Starbucks... peddling addictive... exploiting..."

"Whatever you... let any... through the blocks."

"Rosenberg, are you sure that pig isn't going to be a problem, because, if he is, then you better get your little blonde friend... Heads up, incoming."

Before Buffy could process the fact that the group had been discussing both she and Angel or deal with the unmistakable touch of hostility present in the voice that had been speaking, she watched as her best friend whirled around, Willow's usually warm, friendly eyes frozen with irritation, rage, and distrust. In response, she was unable to prevent the gasp of surprise, of hurt from escaping past her lips, and, unconsciously, she took a self-protective step backwards. "Willow...?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing here, Buffy?" Without giving her a chance to respond, her best friend continued. "Are you following me? Listening into my private, personal conversations? Spying on me for your new traitor of a boyfriend?"

Despite the distance of miscommunication, misunderstandings, and hurt feelings separating them, Buffy couldn't help but detect the note of defensiveness present in Willow's voice, and she knew what defensiveness meant: it meant that her best friend was feeling guilty about something, but, instead of confessing, she was projecting that guilt onto Buffy. In a way, that hurt worse than the lies, the deceit, and the coldness.

"I knew inviting you was a terrible idea – you're too soft, too sheltered, too blind to everything in the world that is going on around you, but I stupidly, naively did it anyway. I thought maybe, if you went to a protest with me, you'd wake up and smell the injustice poisoning the world, but no! Not fluffy Buffy! Come on," Willow demanded, reaching out and grasping Buffy harshly by her upper arm. When Buffy tried to pull away, Willow simply strengthened her hold upon her bicep, making Buffy cry out. There was no doubt in her mind that the grip would bruise. "You're going back to the tent – NOW, and you're going to stay there, even if I have to babysit you myself."

They left then, Buffy willingly going along if, for no other reason, then to get away from the others. It was one thing to confront Willow, but it was a whole different situation to confront her best friend in front of a group of snide, jaded, obviously antagonistic strangers. Eventually, Willow let go of her arm, but the other woman never said another world as they walked. Fury fairly radiated off her form, colliding with and invigorating Buffy's own irritation. Yes, they needed to talk, but, by the time they were once more ensconced in their tent, she admitted that their discussion might go better if they waited until morning, until, hopefully, cooler heads could prevail. No matter what, she didn't want to say something in anger that she would later regret. While their friendship would likely never be the same again, that didn't mean that she wanted to lose Willow's friendship entirely.

So, instead of confronting Willow as she had earlier planned to do, Buffy attempted and mostly failed to go back to sleep, tossing and turning the whole night, while the woman beside her slept without incident, obviously not nearly as upset over their fight as she herself was. No longer did the storm of protest or Mother Nature's gathering tempest worry Buffy. Rather, all she could think about, worry about, lose sleep over was the storm brewing within her own life. She just hoped that her emotions were as well prepared to protect against the deluge as her body was. If not...? Well, she didn't even want to contemplate that scenario, at least, not yet.

! ! !

It was a slow night. Angel couldn't help but wonder if it was the calm before the storm, but he tried to shake off such pessimistic thoughts. After all, nothing good ever came from putting such negative energy out into the universe. Bad things happened easily enough without him anticipating or even thinking them into fruition. However, he just couldn't forget Buffy's friend or the group of people they had found her associating with.

The World Trade Organization was no stranger to protests, so, when their meeting was scheduled for Seattle, he and his fellow police officers had put a plan in motion to protect all – the city's innocent and uninvolved, those who would attend the march, and the delegates. So far, things had been relatively peaceful. Nothing had occurred to make him or any of his coworkers worry that what they all perceived to be a simple protest was actually much more. There was every available reassurance to believe that November 30, 1999 would come and go just as smoothly as all the other days he had seen pass by as a cop.

At least, that's what his mind told him, his logic; his gut told him something different, and all his uneasiness stemmed from a relatively short time spent in the presence of one rather pissed off protester. Maybe he was concerned for no reason. Perhaps, because he was so attracted to Buffy, he was letting his personal feelings cloud his professional judgment, making him nervous for no reason. If he was worried enough, then that would give him an excuse to go down to the Convention Center the next morning after he got off of work.

On and on, back and forth his thoughts moved, zig-zagging between what he considered common sense and what he knew to be over-reaction. Willow, Buffy's best friend, simply might hate cops. It wasn't a novel concept. Also, she might be overly protective of her friend and, because he was a stranger, antagonistic towards him. Hell, for all he knew, maybe Willow was interested in Buffy for herself. But then there was the fact that a protective friend would have met Buffy at the bus station as promised, and he didn't care how paranoid he sounded, there had been something off about the group of protesters they had found the other woman associating with.

So, unable to concentrate on the report he was trying to write up, Angel eventually quit what he was working on, shoving it aside for another day. All cops hated paperwork, so the chief wouldn't suspect anything if his was turned in a few days late. Quickly booting up his computer, he effortlessly, without thought, opened his access to the national criminal database, typing in Willow Rosenberg before he could either second-guess his actions or feel guilty for doing a background check in Buffy's best friend.

What he found, given everything that Buffy had told him about the other woman, wasn't surprising. She had been arrested several times – once for trespassing, once for being a public nuisance, and twice for obstruction. All charges, however, were quickly dropped, as he suspected her parents either paid her fines or knew influential people who dismissed the charges for them, given the fact that they both had similar records and were now very respected, very wealthy, very connected doctors. There was nothing, however, that raised a red flag for the police officer, nothing that signified a history of violence, so either his worry was unfounded or could not be proven and reinforced with actual evidence.

Still uneasy but aware that there was nothing he could do without coming across as being either crazy or, worse, a crazy stalker, Angel closed the program, turned off his computer once more, and returned to his report. No matter his appearance, though, his mind wasn't on his work. Rather, it was solely focused upon a particularly bewitching blonde, one he hoped would be safe the next day and couldn't wait to see again. For Angel, the protest couldn't be over soon enough... for all matters concerned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

Protests were exhilarating.

They made her feel just like cheerleading had back in high school. Though she hadn't always understand all the rules about the various sporting events, Buffy recognized and understood excitement. Adrenaline. Passion. All three sensations were present as she marched along the packed, crowded streets of downtown Seattle, and she suddenly realized at least one reason why Willow was so enthusiastic about demonstrations. She felt more alive that morning than she had felt in months... well, besides what it had felt like spending the prior evening with Angel. But that was an entirely different sort of elation, a much more personal one.

Rather, marching was... contagious, for lack of a better description. When she had first gotten up that morning, way before the crack of dawn, Buffy had been depressed and unenthused. Not only was her disagreement with Willow weighing her down, but her exhaustion didn't help matters either. To make matters worse, there was no half an hour shower to perk her up, no perfectly planned and familiar breakfast to provide her with the energy she was lacking. Instead, she washed off as much of her body that had been decent with moist towelettes and scarfed down an apple and a couple of granola bars.

However, her bad mood quickly disintegrated into an almost childlike anticipation. It had been practically impossible to remain grumpy when so much vitality and elation had been fermenting around her. If the sidewalks the night before had been pleasantly abuzz, that morning, before the walk started, they had been fairly alive with energy. The air had seemed to crackle with everyone's combined fervor. And, just like the wave at a football game, Buffy had caught the very same bug of spirit infecting the other protesters and joined them accordingly.

Now, an hour later, though the storm clouds obscured the sun from being seen in the sky, Buffy knew that the day had officially begun. They were marching, chanting, and vigorously displaying their loud and bright signs for any and all to see. In fact, she was so thoroughly distracted by all the hubbub surrounding her, that she wasn't thinking about her troubles with Willow, wasn't allowing her best friend's lack of presence beside her as she walked north ruin the experience for her, for, despite Willow's MIA status, she wasn't alone. A smaller fragment of the Berkeley group the night before had taken her under their wing, and, between the heat of so many people moving together and the welcoming warmth of her new acquaintances, she couldn't feel the chill of the late November morning.

Although the woman beside her – Tara, she had learned that morning – raised her voice in order to be heard over the melee of the protest, Buffy still had to lean closer to the other student in order to hear her question. "Did you ever find your friend last night? I went to sleep shortly after you set off to look for her, and I didn't see her with you at all this morning, so...?"

"Yeah, I did, and she probably just wandered off to find some of her other friends from school. Probably just like all other campuses, we have this core group of activists, and Willow's like their leader." Laughing slightly, Buffy admitted, "actually, I tell her that she's their mascot, but I only do that to give her a hard time."

"So, why's she here? What's she protesting against?"

Buffy shrugged. "I don't know. She told me, but I really didn't understand anything she said. When Willow gets really worked up about things, she tends to use even bigger words and more technical terms than normal, and I get lost in the translation. But I asked my dad, and he simplified things for me. Basically, if I have everything straight, there's like three big issues, right: the economy, the environment, and human rights?"

One of Tara's friends - she had introduced her as Fred, joined their conversation, not that Buffy was overly talented at remembering names, but even she couldn't forget a name like that. In fact, in a way, their less than conventional names made her feel a connection to the other student, despite the fact that their similarities pretty much started and stopped there. "Aren't those always the big three," Fred questioned teasingly, but her tone held no signs of mocking. "It's just sad that one organization is guilty of all three at the same time. That's why, I think, we ended up with so many protesters here. There's something for everyone."

Curious, Buffy asked, "why are you guys here?"

Fred answered first. "Oh, I'm a tree hugger... as my daddy's says. I'm here, because I hate what big business does to the environment, and many of those big businesses can continue destroying the environment because of regulations established by the WTO. Do you know how many acres of rain forest are destroyed daily so that fast food restaurants can make more and more grazing land for their animals... which will all eventually be slaughtered cruelly? Forget the fact that there are ranchers here in the United States that can barely make ends meet, who have thousands of acres of land just going to waste. Trust me, I know. I'm from Texas."

"Gee," Buffy good-naturedly gave the other woman a hard time, employing her own mock Texan accent. "I never would have guessed."

Fred just chuckled, stuck out her tongue, and then continued. "And don't even get me started on the coffee industry. When it comes to the rainforest, it's just as bad."

"I'm still not going to give up my double shot expressos."

"And Fred wouldn't ask you to, though we're both tea drinkers ourselves," Tara said. "She just wants the coffee companies to go green."

"And you," Buffy asked, curious as to why the mild mannered, quietly speaking woman was there at the protest. She certainly wasn't a hothead like Willow or a self-proclaimed tree hugger like Fred. In fact, in her estimation, Tara really didn't fit the typical protester profile... or, at least, none that she had come into contract with in the past either from knowing Willow or from watching the news.

"Oh, she's the bleeding heart of our group," Fred informed Buffy.

Speaking for herself, Tara shared, "I just don't like to see anyone suffer, so, if I can do something to either stop or prevent it from happening, then I will."

"Go on," Buffy encouraged.

Although she had noticed the other woman's tendency to stutter when she talked, it was obvious that, when Tara was passionate about something, she forgot her nervous habit and, swept away in the emotion of her stance, spoke plainly yet poignantly. "Despite what the public is led to believe, sweat shops still exist today; they're just overseas in developing, poor nations rather than here at home in the US. Many of the recognizable, popular American brands rely upon them to produce cheap products that they can then turn around and sell for an exorbitant profit. Those same fast food chains that are destroying the rain forests, keep their employees downtrodden by foisting upon them near slave-like wages. Because their income is so low, they can barely pay their bills, have no hope of bettering themselves, and are forced to remain in their dead-end jobs. The labor rights and sanctions recommended by the WTO, while initially pleasing, further cripple developing nations, because they can't afford to implement the changes, and the companies are then permitted to pull out of those nations in favor of others who do not have such stringent guidelines. If the plants do implement the changes, then that usually means even lower wages for the employees. And that's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the human rights side of the argument."

"So, then, neither of you are very concerned about the economic aspects of the organization," Buffy wondered out loud. "When my dad was going over everything with me, he really seemed to focus on that part of it."

"It's not that we don't care," Fred shared. "It's just not our focus. But it is Wesley's. Here," she offered, waving down their marching row towards a thin yet attractive man with an unshaven face. "Let me just get his attention..."

"No," Buffy argued. "Really, that's not necessary."

"Of course it isn't," Fred agreed, "but that doesn't mean that I won't. Besides, Wesley loves to talk. He'll be happy to share his opinion with you."

Snorting and surprising Buffy, Tara attempted and failed to hide a snicker. Upon Buffy's curious gaze, she explained, "happy doesn't really cover it."

Soon, a fourth member joined their little group, and the rest of the protesters quickly reorganized to allow him to stand and march with the three women. Introductions were easily given, and, just like with Tara and Fred, Buffy immediately felt comfortable with the man they introduced as Wesley. He, too, evidently attended Berkeley, for he, like the others, wore a Berkeley sweatshirt, but she didn't recognize him from the group the night before.

"So, I hear you're known as Teddy Roosevelt on campus," Buffy started the conversation by joking.

"Excuse me," Wesley asked, apparently not understanding her reference to the man who had supported government regulation of big business. However, she should have known better given his British accent.

"Never mind. Tell me why the WTO is evil from an economic standpoint."

"Do you have a few days?"

Glancing at her watch in order to play along, Buffy, instead, offered, "how about ten minutes?"

"Very well," Wesley sighed teasingly. "I'll see what I can do." And, to that effect, he began. "While it is generally accepted that international trade is of the good to all, there are some of us who disagree with the dangerous unfairness of the current free trade model. In fact, international trade, I believe, has the ability to promote world peace if only the World Trade Organization could recommend and institute a standard set of rules and regulations, reducing the risk of confrontations such as World War I and World War II which were largely the result of trade battles."

"If you consider World War I and World War II mere confrontations, then you really are simplifying things for me, aren't you," Buffy asked, sounding for all the world as though she were bewildered. To further support that idea, she knew her eyes were wide with astonishment. Shaking her head as if to rid it of her stupefaction, she said, "sorry. Please, continue."

"We're also concerned about corporate drive influencing international trade - where safety standards, laws, and rules are deemed barriers rather than important, fair considerations. This ties in quite nicely with the human rights' point of view. Anyway, these decisions are largely made by an unelected set of WTO officials who are flagrantly influenced by corporations with personal and fiscal interests in the meetings. Add to this the IMF and World Bank structural policies making developing nations dependent upon industrialized countries, and there is a definitely skewed international trade market out there currently. Obviously, I could go into further detail, citing exact regulations which are harmful and unfair, but, basically, that is my contention in a nutshell."

"I have to admit that much of that went right over my head," Buffy said, "but even I can see that it's a bum deal for anyone who's not a big kahuna in the Western World."

"Precisely," Wesley agreed with her.

Giving their already strained voices a short rest, the four of them then continued to march, waving their placards but, instead, rather in silence for several blocks. The quiet, however, wasn't good for Buffy's mind, though, because, as soon as she stopped talking with her new acquaintances, worry, once more, set in, and all she could think about was Willow, their argument, and her best friend's strange behavior. Whereas her previously optimistic, perhaps even unwise idea that Willow was simply marching with other students from OSU had been able to contend her while she was distracted, now that she wasn't, all she wanted to do was find her friend, drag her back to the Berkeley students' section, and ease her concern.

Speaking up once more, raising her voice so that she would be heard over the demonstrators, Buffy yelled, "listen, guys, I really appreciate you including me in your group and everything, but I need to go find Willow."

"Logistically speaking, moving against the flow of a group this big will be nearly impossible, Buffy," Fred warned her. "You'll never find her, and you'll be lucky if you're not injured in the process of looking."

"I know, but I have to try anyway. She could be... I just need to know that she's alright."

"Even if your reassurance comes at the cost of your own safety," Wesley questioned.

"Even if."

It was Tara who tried one last time to dissuade her. "Buffy, you know that she's gotten herself into some kind of trouble, right? Those people that you saw her with... They're bad news, really bad news. They don't protest the way we do."

As if what she was about to say would say it all, and, maybe, in a way, it did, Buffy simply shrugged. "She's my best friend." And, with that, she turned around, handed off her sign to the nearest marcher, and disappeared into the crowd surging north with every footstep forward. With every second that passed, her worry and concern turned to panic and fear, but, still, she didn't stop.

Five minutes later, the clouds above opened up, drenching her in their frustration and despair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

The heat and adrenaline of his run had long worn off on the drive back to his small house from Greenlake, the chill of the crisp, autumn morning drying his sweaty skin and making it necessary that he turn the heat on in his SUV. However, Angel wasn't ready yet to shower and crash; he still had loose, extra energy to burn.

Dropping his keys, wallet, badge, and service gun onto the sidebar table by his front door, he then moved into his modestly sized living room, immediately falling into proper push-up position. After doing fifty reps, he turned over and proceeded to do the same count of sit-ups, repeating the pattern ten times before his muscles, though not burning, felt used enough to relax. Sighing, he rocked forward, allowing his abdominal muscles and then his legs to pull him up into a standing position without using his hands for either balance or a boost.

Though he simply could have used the precinct's facilities, Angel preferred to work out on his own. He liked the fresh, natural air of the outdoors when running and the quiet of his own house when strength training. It wasn't in an effort to be anti-social; he just didn't enjoy gossiping while training. For him, rather, it was a release, a way to expel all the negative energy and bad feelings and thoughts he encountered day after day through his job, and he couldn't really focus on cleansing his mind if some cop was yammering in his ear about his marital problems or some fight he had with his partner.

Luckily, there were a lot of places in and around Seattle for runners, but his favorite was usually Alki Beach Park. He liked the freedom of the water, to say nothing of the benefits running through the resistance of sand offered to his workout, but the wind off the sound would have been too harsh that morning, so he had settled for the less challenging Greenlake. Luckily, during the hour in which he ran every morning, the paths had been nearly deserted.

Carelessly stripping as he made his way into his one and only bathroom, Angel found his thoughts, once more, returning to the woman he had met only the night before. Though running several miles had done wonders to sooth his concerns, he still couldn't get Buffy Summers off his mind. As his sweat stained, ratty police academy sweatshirt hit the corner of his clothes hamper, landing just inside of the basket though he paid it no attention, he found himself wondering what she was doing during that very same moment. Of course, that curiosity then led to fantasies of her being there with him instead of out on the sidewalks of downtown Seattle, preparing to warm him back up under the hot spray of the shower.

Quickly, his undershirt, track pants, socks, and boxer-briefs followed until he was standing in his bathroom naked and regrettably alone, no Buffy there to keep him company. At least, though, he had the prospect of their dinner that evening to look forward to before she went back to school and Oregon. Stepping under the spray, he experienced the fleeting whim of asking her if she wouldn't mind a visitor on campus in the near future but quickly dismissed such an idea, wanting to take things as they came instead of getting himself too mired down in the hopes of starting something they couldn't continue, something that she might not even be as interested in as he was.

Ten minutes later, he was clean, thoroughly relaxed, and ready to crash for a good eight hours of uninterrupted rest. Throwing on a pair of fresh underwear, Angel bypassed the door in the hallway which led into his bedroom and, instead, wandered out to the living room, folding down onto the couch. It was big, made of leather, and, being the typical guy, he preferred to fall asleep to the sounds of the television than the sounds of an empty and lonely bedroom. After picking up the remote and pulling the throw blanket he kept right there for that particular reason up and over his nearly naked form, he turned the TV on, uncaring of what channel he was about to listen to.

However, his eyes didn't even have the chance to slip shut before he was ricocheting up once more into a seated position, tossing his covers aside as he turned up the television's volume. He had it set on a local news channel, and the report he was hearing, a breaking one, was everything he had been fearing the night before and everything he had talked himself out of worrying about during his run. Without second thought, he stood up and ran towards the kitchen and back porch where he kept his washer and dryer, tugging on the first pair of clean clothes he could find. After sliding his feet into a pair of worn yet handy running shoes, Angel moved back through his house once more, picking up the various items he had dropped onto his sidebar less than an hour before when he entered.

Even with the television still blaring behind him, the click of the lock as he shut his front door was like a gun shot going off in an otherwise peaceful setting. Angel's reaction was involuntary, instinctual even if it was disheartening. An immediate sense of foreboding trickled up his back and took root at the base of his neck. While he wasn't superstitious, he knew that something bad was about to happen.

!

"Buffy!"

"BUFFY!"

**"BUFFY!"**

On and on, Angel pressed through the crowd of oblivious, student marchers as they made their way ever north of the Convention Center, calling out for the woman he was so concerned about. But she didn't answer him. Quickly, his hesitant yet demanding intrusion into the mass of assembled protesters became rough with determination and desperation, and, rather than wait for them to move out of his way, he started to shove, unconcerned about the ramifications of his actions. Hundreds, perhaps thousands passed by, but, still, he didn't see Buffy.

Eventually, it dawned on him that the very same people he was pushing out of his way might be able to help him, so he calmed his aggression and randomly started to stop demonstrators, asking them if they knew of the blonde. He used her physical description rather than her name, knowing she was a stranger to protesting and that many if not most of the people there would be unacquainted with her.

Finally, when he was nearly to the end of his patience and ready to pull out his badge and simply start arresting people until they gave up the information he wanted, Angel spotted a young woman who seemed to be watching him carefully. Approaching her, he made sure that he presented himself cautiously. He didn't want to spook her by acting too assertive. As he infiltrated the ranks upon ranks of marchers, though, to reach the woman, he realized that, despite his desperate search, she had been the one, no matter how inadvertently, to find him, and he frowned, not because he resented the fact that he had failed but because it made him fear his ability to succeed in whatever latter steps would be necessary in locating Buffy and getting her to safety.

"You look familiar," the woman spoke, eyeing him speculatively. He waited for her to continue, for what was he to say to such a comment. "Did you... are you the guy I saw Buffy with last night?"

"Yes, yes, that's me," Angel replied gratefully, even offering the stranger a slight smile in thanks. "Do you know where I can find her? It's..." He wanted to say life and death, for it was nearly that vital that he locate her, but he didn't, because he didn't want to sound so melodramatic, and he didn't want to scare the girl even more than she already would be once they finished their hopefully short so he could continue looking conversation. "It's important."

"She was with us a little while ago," she offered, gesturing towards another woman and a man to her right, all three of them, Angel noticed, wearing Berkeley sweatshirts, "but she ran off to find that friend of hers, Willow, I think."

Clenching his jaw in frustration, he allowed his gaze to drop momentarily as he sighed. It was the very last thing Angel wanted to hear. As long as Buffy had stayed with the students who were marching north, then she would have been safe, but, if she went back towards the middle of the protest, if she went back towards the Convention Center, and, knowing Willow, even as little as he did, Angel had no doubt that's where Buffy would have to head in order to find her friend, then... Needless to say, he had possessed cause to worry the night before.

The words that left the girl's mouth next only cemented his concerns. "We tried to warn her, practically begged her to just stay here with us, but she wouldn't listen. That friend of hers..." Her words trailed off as she seemed to pause in order to gather her thoughts. "I don't like to say bad things about other people, especially ones I don't know all that well, but Buffy's friend is trouble."

"We fear that she has gotten herself tangled up with some rather unsavory characters," the man added.

"Some mean, ornery sons of bitches," the second woman contributed.

The fact that such a petite, rather innocent looking girl said such words in her drawling Texan accent and with such a serious look upon her clean-cut, wholesome face made Angel nearly want to laugh, but the situation was too dire to give into a bout of momentary mirth. Instead, he once more focused upon the taller, more sedate of the two women. "Do you have any idea where I'd be able to find Willow then, because, chances are, wherever she is, that's where Buffy is heading?"

"I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure she was spending most of her time these past couple of days with..." Swallowing roughly, the stranger met his gaze intently before continuing. "With the black bloc."

In that moment, his fear and panic for Buffy compounded and expanded exponentially. Nevertheless, though, he politely said, "thank you," before moving to walk away and, once more, continue his search.

However, a voice behind him, one belonging to the woman with the Texan accent, made him pause and turn back around. "You're just one man. How are you going to find her? I mean, there are tens of thousands of people here, maybe even a hundred thousand. There's no way..."

"I'm a cop," Angel shared, flashing her his badge and moving his hand in the direction where he kept his gun concealed. "I have my ways." Again, he moved to leave them, but, once more, stopped. If Buffy had been marching with the three Berkeley students, then maybe they were friends of hers, and he knew that she would want her friends to be safe. Even if they weren't her friends, he could tell that they were nice, caring people who just wanted to help make the world a better place. "I know you haven't done anything wrong, but, south of here, all hell's broken loose. There are road blocks. Protesters are rioting, looting. An hour ago, the news said that the S.W.A.T. team was being called in. Take my advice and get the hell out of here. Get as far away from downtown Seattle as you possible can."

"And Buffy," the first woman asked.

"When I find her, I'll tell her that you were worried. Somehow, she'll get in touch with you."

With no more left to be said between them, Angel pivoted on the heels of his running shoes, slipped his badge back into the front, left pocket of his jeans, and set off in a swift jog, dodging and maneuvering his way through a suddenly more cooperative crowd. Whether their cooperation stemmed from the fact that they now knew he was a cop or because they had overheard his warning to the Berkeley students, he didn't know, and he certainly didn't care. Rather, he simply took advantage of the situation, moving ever closer to the center of the storm and, hopefully, ever closer to finding Buffy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six**

Destruction reigned in downtown Seattle.

If Angel didn't know better, he wouldn't have recognized his own city. Oh, the sites that he was familiar with were still there – the streets he patrolled, the restaurants he frequented, the ever present rain, but, instead of, if not happy, then at least content people going about their daily lives and business, the sidewalks were all but deserted except for rioting protesters and police officers. Instead of the welcome sight of brightly decorated display windows in the shops he passed, he saw smashed out glass, wrecked merchandise, and hastily rectified barriers. Instead of the buzz of traffic and comfortable conversation, he heard screaming and crying, the sounds of Seattle shattering at his feet.

The closer Angel got to the Convention Center, the worse the scene became. What was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration, a designed march that spread north and south from the site of the World Trade Organization's meeting place, had turned into a blockade. Protesters lined the streets, refusing to allow the delegates entrance to the Center in order to prevent the meetings from even occurring. From there, things just continued to spiral out of control when violent contingents of the group began to destroy and loot local businesses.

Branches of banks representative of Bank of America, Key Bank, Washington Mutual Bank, and others were targeted for helping corporations expand their repression of the poor, the downtrodden, the less fortunate. Popular, recognizable retail stores – Old Navy, Gap, Banana Republic, Nike, and Levi's - were harassed for raping the forests of the Northwest, employing sweatshop laborers, and for overpricing their sweatshop produced goods. They railed against fast food restaurants for their slave wages, for destroying the rain forests, for the cruelty of slaughtering animals, and they lashed out against Starbucks and other coffee chains for peddling addictive substances and exploiting poverty farmers and forcing them to destroy their own lands. For being a media monopoly and spreading the lies and deceit of other corporations, Warner Brothers was lashed out against. And Planet Hollywood was subjected to their hate simply for being Planet Hollywood.

In response, because the police that were centered around the meeting site were blocked off from the rest of the city, they eventually tried to break through the line of protesters to the south keeping the delegates from the Convention Center. Now, though, Angel watched on as he continued to search for Buffy as pepper spray, tear gas, and nerve gas were sprayed onto the protesters. Stun grenades and rubber bullets were fired into the crowd which simply picked the projectiles back up and threw them back towards the cops. Not only were storefronts being looted, but they were also being vandalized. Dumpsters were pushed over and lit on fire in the middle of intersections, the tires of police vehicles slashed and deflated.

Suddenly, the horror before him became too much, and Angel simply stopped for several choking moments to gawk in misery. How things had progressed as far as they did, he didn't know. Perhaps the cops reacted too strongly; maybe the protesters were simply too out of control, and, once started, could not be reeled back in. But what he saw made him wonder if there was not a single faction to blame but, instead, a set of circumstances and a few extremists who simply pushed everyone else. Were demonstrators fighting back because they resented the police interference, or were they simply afraid for their lives and blindly trying to escape and survive? Were the cops still trying to simply get a handle upon the situation, or had they become incensed, making the situation personal? He didn't know, and, frankly, Angel didn't care.

Oh, he certainly didn't want people to be injured or even killed, and he didn't want any more property destroyed, but, as the Berkeley student had reminded him just minutes before, he was only one man. There was no way he alone could stop the protest, no way that his one cool head could prevail in the tumult that surrounded him. For that matter, he wasn't even sure he could see things clearly himself at that point.

He was angry with Willow. He was angry with himself for not trusting his instincts and going to find Buffy the night before. He was angry with the fools who thoughts violence and vandalism were the only ways to get their points across. He was angry with his fellow officers for not predicting the mess they were currently in and doing something more to prevent it, and he was angry with them for the brute force which they were using in an attempt to subdue the crowd. And he was angry at the World Trade Organization, too, because, if their practices could create such mayhem, then there was obviously something wrong with them.

Most of all, though, he was afraid. Moving once more into the nightmare before him, Angel realized that it wasn't just the looters who were being targeted; for reasons he didn't understand and didn't want to comprehend, his coworkers were attacking the innocent as well, spraying, and shooting, and injuring the peaceful protesters who were attempting to prevent further harm. At those particular sights, Angel felt his blood boiling, for Buffy was such an innocent, and, if anything were to happen to her...

Before he could finish that thought, even in his own mind, he spotted Willow and immediately bolted towards the irate, screaming, violent young woman. Fully embroiled in the mess he instinctively knew she had helped instigate, Willow, a stolen gas mask tied to her belt, dressed all in black, was picking up anything and everything she could find on the streets and throwing the discarded items through storefront windows. When the glass broke, she'd jump into the display areas, pushing over, kicking, and ripping anything she could touch and then destroy.

As she hopped back down and started to stroll off to the next store, Angel moved up behind her, too infuriated to censor his emotions or reactions and shoved her as hard as he could. Willow stumbled for several steps until she braced herself against the hard, sturdy brick wall of a building, eventually whirling around to confront her attacker. By the momentary flicker of shock upon her face, it was obvious that she hadn't been expecting him, but he didn't give her even a second to process her surprise; instead, he charged ahead, lashing out and yelling his claims against her.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" When she didn't respond but smirked, looking entirely too pleased with herself, he leapt forward, grasped her by the shoulders, and shook her roughly. "You stupid, selfish..."

"Get your fucking hands off me, Pig," Willow screamed, using her own to push upwards and out in an effort to release his grip. It, because of the fact that, though he was furious with her, Angel didn't want to actually physically hurt her, worked. "And, if we're going to be tossing insults around, well, then..."

That time, it was his turn to do the interrupting. "Where the hell is Buffy?"

"How should I know," she dismissed arrogantly. "Probably off singing songs from the 60's and braiding hair with her new hippy friends. Look for rainbows, puppies, and smiles, and I'm sure you'll find Buffy there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have a lot of businesses to hold accountable."

She went to walk away from him, but he refused to let her, instead reaching out and clamping his hand around her upper arm, whirling her back around to face him once more. "You have no idea what you've done, do you," Angel questioned, but he didn't give her a chance to respond. "While you might not care about what happens to your _best friend_, Buffy isn't like you. Right now, as you act like a child and destroy private property, she's off somewhere in this mess looking for you, worried about you, risking her life to find you." He hoped his words would spark even the smallest flame of concern, but they fell on deaf ears, and Willow simply continued to struggle against his grip and glare in his direction. "You don't even care, do you?"

"Buffy's a big girl. She can take care of herself."

"Except she can't. Look around you, Willow. Look at what you've done."

Surprising him, she did just that, but, instead of the nauseous terror he himself felt when he glanced around downtown Seattle, Willow looked on at the scene with pride and joy evident in her burning, almost crazed looking eyes. With triumph laced in her voice, she said, "I've helped put in motion a set of events that will change the world. No one will be able to ignore this day. No one will be able to turn a blind eye now to the horrors the WTO continue to instigate and support. They'll be forced to change their ways after what we did here."

"You really are delusional, aren't you? You fool," Angel yelled, once more shaking her lightly by the firm grip he still held on her arm. "All you did here was cause innocent people to be injured, perhaps even killed; all you did here was destroy millions of dollars worth of public and private property. When this day is over and you're sitting in a jail cell waiting for mommy and daddy to come bail you out _again_, the only thing that you will have accomplished is inspire pain, fear, and disgust. No one's going to admire your actions; they're going to hate you and what you did. You made the WTO the victims in this situation, turning the attention away from where it should have been – on the issues – and putting it on the unlawful, dangerous behavior of a few small minded, ignorant people."

Rudely, Willow asked, "are you done yet?"

"You make me sick," he spat at her contemptuously.

"Good, because, one, you're wrong, and, two, contrary to what you think is going to happen, I haven't been arrested yet."

She smiled insolently, gave him the finger with her free hand, and again attempted to pull away from him. He surprised her when he let go of her arm, but then she gasped in shock when she felt the cool metal of his handcuffs being placed around her wrists before she could even take a single step away. "Big words," he taunted, locking the restraints in place, "for a little jailbird."

While he led her away from the storefronts and out into the street where the nearest police cruiser sat, Angel read Willow her rights, determined to not make a single mistake that her parents could later exploit. While her actions and subsequent arrests in the past had been minor, this time she had resorted to violence, and he was going to make sure every single charge that could possibly he leveled against her was. If he had anything to say about it and he did, being a cop, Willow Rosenberg would be going to jail, in part because she deserved it, in part because of what she had potentially caused to happen to Buffy, and in part because he just didn't like the spoiled, insufferable bitch.

Once she was deposited safely into the custody of an on-duty officer, Angel turned back around to, once more, begin his search, but, before he could move ten paces away, the chief of the Seattle police department, his boss, cornered him. "Kelly, I don't know why the hell you're down here, and, frankly, I don't care, but find the nearest S.W.A.T. truck, suit up, and get your ass back out to continue helping. I've already called in the National Guard who've declared a state of emergency. Hell, the mayor's calling it martial law out here. We're going to be issuing a curfew later, but, in the meantime, we need to get this situation under control. _Now_."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I came down here to find someone, and, until I do and know that they're safe, I can't help you."

"Officer, if you don't do what I say, you'll be acting in direct disobedience to a superior's command. That's grounds for an immediate dismissal. Do you want to loose your job over some chick?"

How his boss knew that Angel was looking for a woman, he didn't know, but it also wasn't the point. After seeing the things he had witnessed that morning, after watching his fellow officers brutally attack both guilty and innocent protesters, he looked the chief of police in the eye, said, "it's not much of a job anymore, is it," and left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

He wanted children.

That realization in and of itself normally would have been enough to shock Angel. After eighteen years of watching his own father ignore his family, by the time he left home, he had practically promised himself he'd never get married or have kids. However, in the wake of the events unfolding around him, such a simple, pure desire wasn't so astonishing any more, and, while a part of him believed that he must be insane to want to bring kids into a world where such atrocities could occur, another, more rational part of him, knew that the peaceful protest turned extraordinarily violent wasn't the norm.

No, what was truly startling wasn't his newfound desire but the cause of it surfacing: Buffy. Oh, he knew such thoughts were unrealistic, but, as he forced his mind to close down enough to block out the horrors he was witnessing in order to continue focusing on his search for the missing woman and not stop to help each and every single person he came upon who needed assistance, he had to think about better things, beautiful things, and, as it turned out, Buffy colored things. While he had known her for less than twenty-four hours, she had somehow managed to worm herself under his thick skin, penetrating the self-imposed armor he had worn around his heart since he was just a child.

Perhaps it was the life and death atmosphere he had been thrust into without warning. When tensions were running high and adrenaline was pumping, emotions were always stronger, more intense, just simmering there right under the surface, but, at the same time, Angel didn't believe that to be true, because his amazing reaction to her hadn't started that morning when he turned on his television to see his adopted hometown torn asunder by bad feelings and poor communication; rather, it had started the very first moment he had laid eyes upon her. As soon as Buffy had entered the cafe the night before, he had been intrigued, and that feeling was only intensifying the longer he knew her.

It wasn't love. He was level headed enough to know that much. While he wasn't jaded enough to completely discredit the idea of true love and happily ever after's, he didn't believe in love at first sight. Lust? Hell yeah. He had experienced lust at first sight often enough himself to know of its existence, and, though he felt that for Buffy, it was more than that as well. There was a connection, an ease, and, of course, there was also the fact that, with her, unlike with any other women he had ever spent time with, the idea of spending forever with Buffy didn't send him running in the opposite direction, afraid for his sanity and freedom.

There were factors that could have explained his sudden shift in opinion. In his thirties, now, the facts that he wasn't invincible, wouldn't live forever, and didn't want to spend his entire life alone were ever-present. Technically, according to science and modern medicine, he was already out of his sexual prime, though Angel thoroughly disagreed with scholars on that particular note. And then he also had to factor in his lifestyle. Not only was it impossible for a cop to remain completely impartial to the crime and tragedies they witnessed on a daily basis, making them long for something steady and reliable, warm and comforting, but he also didn't care what any man said, one day, eventually, all guys woke up and realized that emotionless, mindless sex just didn't satisfy them anymore; they wanted – no, they needed – more.

And, apparently, in his case, that meant that he needed babies... with Buffy. Whether things would work out with them, he had no idea. After all, there were so many complications already against them. First and foremost, though he didn't want to give life to such thoughts, there was the risk that, once the day was over, Buffy Summers wouldn't even be alive anymore. If she did manage to survive the disastrous protest, then there were the usual complications between them: their age difference, the fact that they didn't even live in the same state, and what if she didn't return his strong, ever-growing feelings?

To her, he might just be some nice guy from a coffee shop, one she never planned on seeing again once she left Seattle. What if she didn't want to get married, didn't want kids, wanted a chance to sow her wild oats just like had been doing for the past fourteen years? No matter what, though, when he attempted to shield himself from the destruction and pain cloaking the sidewalks and streets he traversed while he searched like a dense, almost palpable storm cloud, the only person he saw by his side as he aged, as he lived, as he loved was Buffy. Oddly enough, even that wasn't as scary as the events unfolding around him.

So, for every atrocious act he witnessed, Angel allowed himself to think of something he wanted. He wanted a large credit card bill on which he charged his fiancee's ring, a bill that, when it came in the mail every month, he wouldn't feel irritated and put-upon while opening it, but, rather, he'd feel an immense sense of pride. He wanted an elaborate, expensive, tropical honeymoon where it rained each and every day, forcing he and his new wife to stay in their suite the entire time, never once even touching the white sand beaches so advertised on their travel brochure. He wanted two a.m. runs to the grocery store to appease his pregnant wife's cravings, spit up on his favorite, old t-shirt, and morning sex interrupted by early-bird kids who refused to stay in their own beds. He wanted dance recitals, Little League games, and parent-teacher conferences. He wanted to forget his wedding anniversary and be forced to make it up to his wife for months on end, pets who destroyed everything, a son who used his tools and never put them back, daughters to lock in their rooms and never allow them to date, and a wife who would kiss him until he relented and release their daughters' padlocked doors. He wanted it all... with Buffy.

As he continued to progress further and further through the wreckage and devastation, Angel also picked up various items that be thought might be usual eventually, either in his search for Buffy or, later, when he found her. And he promised himself that he would indeed manage to rescue her. He found several bottles of unopened water, their seals still intact, and chastised himself for not bringing some in the first place, especially considering his warning advice to Buffy the night before. He also located and kept for himself a hastily dropped and forgotten gas mask and a police vest. Why such a thing had been abandoned, he didn't even want to contemplate. At least, there were no obvious holes in the protective wear or signs of blood. Whether he approved of his coworkers' actions that morning or not, they were still his fellow officers, many of them men he personally knew, many of them men with a wife and kids at home, and he didn't want any of them to be killed or wounded in action.

There were several times when his mind almost succeeded in playing an elaborate set of tricks on him. He would see a petite blonde from the back and, hoping more than he was actually thinking, he would believe for a moment that he had finally found Buffy. No matter if mentally he knew he was wrong or not, for that split second, his emotions would be in control, and he would feel satisfaction and relief surge through his form until it was extinguished by a firm dose of reality. He'd either see their faces and realize he was wrong, or he would finally recognize that the petite blonde was not petite enough or too blonde to be the woman he was looking for.

So, when he did eventually spot her, Angel took a moment to make sure he was right before charging in her direction. Nearly half a city block away from him, he saw her in the midst of several rioters, the lone peaceful protester trying to persuade them against their violent actions. With a warm rush of pride and a not so meager touch of fear, he watched her as she moved as quickly as she could to directly block the attackers' target – another storefront window, as she yelled and screamed herself nearly raw in an attempt to dissuade them, and as she attempted to call for others to support and help her cause. Not a single demonstrator approached.

However, a cop did, and Angel sighed in relief. Until he could push and fight his way to her side, his fellow officer would be able to protect Buffy, and he was grateful for the other man's concern. Although he wasn't directly involved in the protest on either side of the altercation, it was still extremely difficult for him to maneuver himself through the streets. Throughout the entire time he had been searching for Buffy, he had taken blows, both grazing and more direct, from enraged, hotheaded marchers and cops alike. Angel knew that, by the time he made it home later that day – he hoped, he'd have several bruises and contusions on his body.

As quickly as his reprieve from worry had surfaced, it disappeared as, from still too far away to help, he watched the cop he had believed to be going to help Buffy instead attack her. Now uncaring of who he hurt as he passed through the melee, Angel pushed and shoved, elbowed and clawed his way through the protesters and police officers, but it was too late. By the time he reached her, she had fallen to the ground, the helpless victim of an attack she did not deserve. She had been shot several times by rubber bullets, something quite dangerous given her small stature and size, sprayed with pepper spray, and then beaten down until the point where she had curled up into a small, protective ball before losing consciousness.

"Get the fuck away from her," Angel bellowed, shoving the enraged cop with one hand while he held out his badge with the other. Surprising him, the other officer reacted instantly to the tone of authority in his voice and at the realization that they were co-workers, fellow men in blue, and he backed off, immediately holding up his hands in surrender. Angel didn't hesitate a moment, despite Buffy's injuries. Even if moving her could be dangerous, it sure as hell would be more dangerous to leave an unconscious, helpless woman on the sidewalk in the middle of what was very quickly becoming a disaster zone. Scooping Buffy up into his arms, he turned on the other cop and sneered bitterly, resentfully. The other officer made him sick.

He wasn't sure why exactly the other man had reacted the way he had to Buffy's situation, but he had a pretty good idea. "I'll have your badge for this, you fucking coward."

"What are you talking about, man? She's a protester! You can't take her anywhere. She's under arrest. I'm just doing my damn job."

"By what, attacking an innocent woman, because there was only one of her and you were afraid to go up against several others at a time? I saw everything that happened. She was trying to prevent the others from vandalizing a storefront; she wasn't doing anything wrong, but you charged in, shot her and then continue to subdue her with pepper spray and with a beating despite the fact that she surrendered immediately and the others, those who were really guilty, ran off to break some other store's windows. As for taking her, you're damn right I am," Angel said. His voice was laced with hostility and warning. "And, if you even try to stop me, I'll fucking shoot you. And, just so you know, unlike you, I'm not packing rubber bullets either."

Pivoting on his heels, with Buffy as safely held in his arms as he could manage, he strode off, unconcerned about the officer behind him retaliating or fighting back. The man was obviously scared out of his mind, resorting to beating on innocents and those weaker than him because he was too afraid of his own mortality to do anything else. Unfortunately, it wasn't the first time Angel had seen such cowardice in one of his fellow cops.

As he walked away, moving, again, as quickly as both carrying Buffy and the crowd would allow him, he felt a twinge of guilt for not staying to help with the situation, but, like he had realized and told himself before, there was nothing he, as one man, could do alone. In all likelihood, if he simply handed Buffy off to someone else to take care of and went back into the mess that was downtown Seattle, he'd only end up getting hurt himself, and he'd rather be of use to one person, someone he cared about, then fail thousands of others.

Silently, urgently, he made his way towards the outside of the protest zone, locating an ambulance rig and a driver he knew. Without explaining why he wasn't in uniform or what had happened to the woman in his arms, Angel simply used his connections to secure her a ride to the nearest hospital. Sitting beside her on the slow and tedious trip to the emergency room, the hundreds of police and National Guard vehicles lining the streets making them difficult to traverse, Angel held her hand and promised to keep her safe.

He just hoped it wasn't too little, too late.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: And, with this post, Storm Clouds Gathering comes to a close. Thanks for reading, thanks for being patient with me during the lulls of this fic, and, as always, enjoy! As for my next story, it's a full length fic, and it's called The Price We Pay for Love._

~Charlynn~

**Part Eight**

"You know you're not losing your job, right," his boss said in lieu of an actual greeting. Although Angel didn't shift his attention towards the hospital room's entrance at all, keeping his focus entirely on a still unconscious Buffy, he knew the other man was there, had known before he spoke. "I figured I'd better say something before I knocked if I actually wanted to be invited in."

Without waiting for a response, the Seattle police chief rapped twice on the door's jamb before gingerly stepping into the room, pulling the remaining chair to the opposite side of Buffy's bed, and sitting down so that he was positioned directly across from Angel, maintaining an appropriate amount of distance between himself and the patient. After all, they had never met before. Just when Angel was about to respond, the older man held up his hands in a gesture to ward off whatever it was he wanted to say and continued to talk himself. "I know it's not an excuse, Kelly, but I had no idea you were seeing anyone. No one did. I asked around."

"Yeah, well, we... It's complicated."

"Isn't it always?" To conclude his rhetorical question, the chief of police simply raised a meaningful, heavy brow and smirked. Whether he actually understood the situation or not, Angel wasn't going to question him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I am, too. Trust me, it wasn't easy to disobey your orders, and it certainly wasn't easy to walk away from all those people who needed my help, but she..." By re-including Buffy in their conversation, he returned his gaze to the prone woman in the bed before him. "She needed it more."

"No apologies necessary, Officer," his boss reassured him, "especially in light of what happened to her. I read the report you filed. The cop who did this will be going in front of the review board. However, I would like your in-put as to what you'd like to see happen to him. A probational period? Temporary suspension? Permanent suspension?"

"That shouldn't be up to me," he answered soberly. "That should be up to Buffy."

The police chief nodded in both recognition and acceptance of his statement. "I spoke to her doctor before coming in to see you. Granted, I'm not family, so he might not have been telling me everything, but getting information from reluctant medical professionals is one of the perks of my job. He said that she should make a full recovery?"

"Yeah, right now we're just waiting for her to wake up. She suffered from a pretty serious concussion. A blow to the head from steel-toed boots tends to do that, but there shouldn't be any lasting neurological damage."

"And the rest of her injuries?"

"She's got several broken bones in both hands – defensive wounds from attempting to shield herself from the officer's attack, a broken wrist that may eventually need surgery to heal properly, a broken collar bone, and four broken ribs which, luckily, somehow managed to not puncture either of her lungs, not to mention considerable bruising and more lacerations than I've been able to count so far. Her abdomen is slightly tender, too, the doctors think from the rubber bullets being fired at her from such a close range. They're watching that, too, to make sure that she's not bleeding internally, but they're optimistic."

"Jesus."

Bitterly, Angel snapped, "and just think what might have happened to her if I hadn't been searching for her, if I hadn't gotten there in time to intervene." As if to reassure himself that she was, in fact, alright and was really going to make it through her injuries just like the doctors promised, he picked up her left hand and held it between both of his own, his thumbs lightly caressing her silky soft skin, making sure that his ministrations were tender and gentle so as to not exasperate her injuries or cause her more discomfort and pain. After several moments, he glanced back up at his boss. "She was doing nothing wrong, too – just trying to stop others from vandalizing yet another storefront, and he still did this to her; we – _the cops –_ still did this to her. So, thank you for not firing me like you originally threatened, but I'm not sure that I can come back to work, at least not right away."

"After all that we just witnessed, experienced, you're not going to be the only one needing some time and therapy, Kelly. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not, but I'm also not talking about therapy, Sir. I knew before this morning that our job can sometimes be ugly; I just never thought that we'd ever knowingly contribute to that ugliness. No, I'm just not sure that I want to be a cop anymore."

"Well, take some time off... with pay, of course. I'm sure you have quite a bit of backed up vacation time coming to you. And, while you're off, figure out what you want to do. If you're going to walk away from the job, Kelly, the time to do it is now... before you settle down, get married, have kids, and, from the looks of things, those steps might be coming faster than you previously thought."

With a nod of acceptance, Angel moved their conversation on. "So, tell me what happened? I haven't wanted to turn the TV on – didn't want to disturb her, but I have managed to pick up some bits and pieces from the staff as they pass by and in and out of the room. It sounds like you guys finally got things back under control."

"The estimates range from there being 50,000 to 100,000 protesters on site when the march started this morning, but we'll probably never have a more accurate number at this point, people being too afraid to come forward, but, considering that, there really was only a small group that actually turned violent."

"That's how it usually is, protest or otherwise."

Though he didn't comment in response, it was obvious to Angel as he observed the Seattle police chief that the older man agreed with him. "At last count, we arrested approximately 600."

Wryly, he pointed out, "the courts are going to be a mess. The judges are not going to be happy about this."

"Too bad. We're prosecuting... eventually."

Glancing away from his boss, Angel scowled. Disgustedly, he knew what the other man's words meant. Even as they spoke, lawyers were being denied, turned away, and he would bet everything he owned that there were people sitting in jail who had bloody wounds and broken bones still going unattended. While the Chief of Police might have been ready to admit he had acted rashly in connection with his treatment of one of his own officers, he was not ready to forgive and forget those he had fought against and detained that morning; he was still taking advantage of his position, bullying, and flouting the law, further proving to Angel that his decision to reconsider his job had been a sound one. No matter how strongly he disagreed with the actions of his co-workers, again, he did not have the power to change anything or make a difference. Never before in a single day had he ever felt so ineffective.

After a considerable stretch of silence between them, the other man spoke up once more. "There's another reason that I wanted to stop by and speak with you this evening. That girl that you arrested and then turned over into another officer's custody – Willow Rosenberg, I've already been personally contacted by her family's attorney. How the man managed to maneuver that, I have no idea, but..."

"The Rosenbergs are wealthy, influential doctors from Southern California who have some pretty important friends."

"You mean politically connected friends. I should have guessed, the fucking liberal yuppies. Anyway," the older cop scowled, continued, "what do you want done with the girl? If you want the charges to stick, then they will, or we can let her go with a slap on the wrist. It's entirely up to you, Officer Kelly."

"Throw the book at her," Angel answered, unable to mask his bitterness towards the girl in question. "This isn't the first time she's gotten into trouble at a rally. However, this is the first time, as far as I've been able to discover, that her actions have ever turned violent. I'd like to make sure it's the last time, too, so, whatever you do, all I ask is that you make sure she can't walk on some bullshit technicality. I want her case handled to the letter, as professionally as possible. No screw ups. No ignored civil rights. Kid gloves, you got me." Remembering his place, he hastily added, "Sir," to the end of his commands.

Standing, the police chief nodded and said, "I think that can be arranged," before moving his chair back into its former position. Halting by the room's doorway before leaving, he added, "I know it doesn't make up for what occurred, but I want you to know that I truly am sorry for what happened to you and Miss Summers today. Whatever the future holds, no matter what you decide... good luck, Liam, and take care of that girl of yours."

He tilted his head in recognition as he watched the older man turn around and leave, waiting until the last sounds of the seasoned cop's steps faded away entirely before returning his gaze to the woman in the bed before him and smirking. "You can open your eyes now. He's gone, and I know you're awake."

"Sorry about the eavesdropping," Buffy whispered, the sound of her voice raspy from thirst. Before she could continue, he poured her a cup of water from the bedside table and held it for her as she drank. Surprisingly, she didn't fight him on the assistance which told him just how much pain she was in. Once she had finished drinking the entire glass, Buffy explained, "by the time I started coming around, you guys were getting to the good stuff, so I didn't want to interrupt."

Though his words held no rancor, he teased, "for future reference, are you always so nosey?"

"Yes." When he laughed, Buffy said further, "when it's about someone that's important to me, then I'll do whatever I have to do to find out anything and everything I need to know."

"So, you must have woken up while we were discussing Willow," Angel surmised. "Look, I know she's your best friend, but I couldn't just..."

She interrupted him. "Or maybe I woke up a little earlier than that."

That stopped his apology immediately. "How much earlier?"

"You're quitting your job," Buffy answered his question with one of her own.

"I'm not completely decided yet, but, yeah, I'm definitely thinking about it."

"You're not just doing that because of what happened to me, right? I mean, don't get me wrong. That's pretty flattering, but I don't want to be the reason that you go and throw away ten years of your career."

"Yes, you're a big part of it, but you're not the only reason," Angel responded. "Buffy, the things I saw today..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed audibly past the sudden lump in his throat. "Needless to say, it got pretty horrible out there, but it's more than just my disillusionment that's making me want to rethink my life. I know I didn't tell the chief any of this, but, frankly, I don't think that it's any of his business."

"Oh, well, in that case, I shouldn't have asked. I do that, too... for future reference – ask too many questions, some of which are none of my business."

"No, it's fine," he reassured her. "The reason I didn't tell my boss is because those other reasons are personal, and you... well, you're personal, too."

"Angel, I'm sorry, but I don't really understand what you're trying to say." And the adorable frown marring her forehead and scrunching up her nose proved that very fact to him.

"Look, about what I'm going to tell you in a few seconds... I don't want to scare you off."

"You're not going to," she told him resolutely. He could hear the conviction in her voice. "Besides the fact that I'm pretty sure I couldn't walk right now let alone run away, I don't think you could ever scare me... about anything."

"Oh, you say that now..." Allowing his remark to trail away, Angel took a deep breath before plunging into a confession he couldn't have possibly imagined making even twenty-four hours before. "I like you, Buffy. I don't think I've made that a secret at all, but it's more than that. I've liked women in the past but never to this extent and certainly never so much so quickly."

Grinning brightly, warmly, despite the obvious bruises marring her delicate skin, Buffy confessed, "I like you, too."

He pressed on, not allowing her words to actually sink in, for fear that they would boost his confidence and hope only to have them crash and burn when he finished telling the woman before him how he felt. "Before last night, I mainly just had flings, one night stands even sometimes. In fact, the idea of settling down, of wanting kids was completely forbidden, not because such thoughts scared me but because I just didn't think those were things that I wanted. However, now, I've changed my mind. _You've _changed my mind."

"Wow."

When she said nothing else for several minutes, Angel prompted, "is that 'wow' good or 'wow' bad, because I have to tell you: right about now, I could use a little encouragement." Practically thinking out loud, he added, "at least, you're not screaming in panic and using your call button to bring a nurse in to remove me from your hospital room. That's a positive sign... unless you're too in shock to even react which then would be..."

"Wow good," Buffy stopped his rambling, once more offering him a smile with her words. Although her second grin since waking up wasn't as wide as her first, it was somehow more intimate, more caring. "Sorry about the delay in responding, but I was just trying to figure out a way to both shock you in return and show you that I've been having similar thoughts... not about the kids part, though, because, frankly, I'm just twenty-one, and my dad would kill you and then have a Hamlet-Ophelia-Nunnery moment with me." Taking a deep breath, she pushed on. "How do you feel about spending my holiday break with me at my home... with my parents and bratty little sister? I think a change of scenery and a break from his damn, infernal rain would be just the thing you need to get some perspective, to figure out what you want to do next."

"Speaking of your dad and bratty little sister, he's on his way up here as we speak. The first time I called your house, your sister Dawn answered and, when she didn't recognize my name, hung up immediately."

"She a little territorial with the phone."

"So, I had to call back and use my official cop voice and badge to get her to actually put your dad on so I could tell him what happened to you."

"Did he freak," Buffy asked hesitantly, visibly curving in her shoulders and folding in onto herself out of concern.

"A little bit, but I reassured him that you were going to make a full recovery, and he seemed to relax some when he realized that you weren't going to be alone, that I was going to be with you the entire time until he got here."

"And then?"

"Then," Angel responded, smirking. "Then we hope that he doesn't mind me hanging around some more." Shifting gears, he continued, "also, your new and let me say tenacious friends from Berkeley found out who I was, located me, and checked in to make sure you were okay. I wouldn't be too surprised to see them stop by, too, before they go back to school."

"That'd be nice. I'd like to exchange information with them so that we can stay in touch."

"And not plan more protests, right, because, if you think you're going to participate in any more marches any time soon..." His empty, teasing threat died away as Angel had nothing to finish it with.

"Well, I might have to hold a demonstration - and it could get violent, too – if you don't tell me and soon what you think about my idea of you spending Christmas with me and my family."

"I think," Angel started, drawing his words out for as long as possible as he leaned down so that he and Buffy were nose to nose, brow to brow, mouth to mouth. Instead of finishing his thought, though, he simply kissed her. The embrace was soft and gentle, for he didn't want to hurt her at all, a mere introduction of their lips, a whispering together of their tongues. Ending the kiss but refusing to pull away from her, so, in effect, their mouths still brushed together when he spoke, Angel murmured, "does that answer your question?"

Giggling, Buffy replied, "wow good," before kissing him once more.

Their second embrace was less tentative but no less sweet and tender, igniting a tempest of longing inside of him. With the clouds of their emotions gathering, Angel wasn't sure how long they'd be able to keep the storm of their feelings at bay.

Frankly, he couldn't wait to be drenched by the downpour.


End file.
